


Sexth Sense

by Cinnamaldeide



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Boners, Canon-Typical Violence, Cole Sear sees dead people and Will Graham sees naked people, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining, Revised Version, Season/Series 01, aesthetic included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 16:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16601348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide
Summary: Everyone has a preferred type, be it according to their own volition or instinctual drives. If Will Graham’s reactions at crime scenes are any indication, serial killers might be his own. Retelling of the first season inspired by a bad joke about Will’s specific way of thinking and seeing.Written for the Murder Husbands Big Bang 2018, partnered withTCBook





	Sexth Sense

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [GoodNerd49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodNerd49/pseuds/GoodNerd49) and [Another_lost_one](https://archiveofourown.org/users/another_lost_one) for having beta read this work, which is so far the longest I wrote (and will likely _ever_ write) and will be included in a book I’m planning to publish ❀

  


 

Eager hands search for his disarranged hair to pull and hold.

Teeth clench around his bare neck, his sensitive calf, his fragile wrist.

His glutes are separated by eager blood-soaked fingers.

He answers in kind, with voluptuous moans and guttural grunts.

He answers with unbridled, aggressive commitment.

As his perceptive eyes cloud in crescent bliss, his attention briefly linger on the shiny blade about to pierce his skin, his chest, his sinful soul. He anticipates the thrust of his sword. In a desperate moment of elusive clarity, he becomes his own excited assailant.

His fleeting realisation passes in an agonizing instant, as Will wakes up in his bed, drenched in sweat with a gnawing sense of solitude.

•

The body language can tell a great deal about a person.

The nervous twitch of a mouth at the mention of an uncomfortable truth, the absent slide of an unfocused gaze while resurfacing from a forgotten memory, the slow change in skin colour due to unexpected compliments or disrespectful statements. Extra-linguistic communication manifests large part of what the brain unconsciously elaborates, inducing copious sweating or gradual serotonin release, even if the intellect would prevent such openness, were it within its power.

Clothes may result distracting in the process of analysing such features, since the dress code has its own dynamics. See too much, not see enough; it’s hard to focus, when you’re thinking  _ Oh, such strenuous efforts to cover her ugly scars  _ or _ No pants would conceal the injury on his damaged leg. _

Will Graham doesn’t see the problem, literally. His mind works differently, his eyes filter the dark cloth covering the adipose tissue of soft, socially unattractive flanks, or track with sharp precision the location of a physical deformation hidden under a strategically large sweater. Straight past the clothes, the skin vividly stimulates his overworking imagination, describing a complicated pattern of muscle tissue and lithe tendons.

Sometimes it’s hard to treat with adequate respect the efforts paid to preserve a chosen set of social indicators, when Will doesn’t appreciate its results; that’s probably the reason why he’s so careless with his outfit himself.

It’s been deemed an uncomfortable gift. His second therapist had tried to ascribe its triggering cause to a minor empathy disorder, yet too little research has been done on his particular brand of mental dysfunction. His condition has been difficult to handle deep into adulthood, when the remaining mirror neurons still hadn’t naturally decayed, and now his only hope is not to interact with people on a daily basis; such is his best case scenario.

Refusing the insistent encouragements to get involved in a recent research project, which would unnecessarily force his father into constant travels despite their precarious working situation, Will still patiently waits for the situation to improve on its own in his forties.

He concentrates to not divest his interlocutors while he pays them attention, but his pathology never tends towards the morbid, he doesn’t fantasise about their naked semblances in a sexual way. His life is still awkward enough without his condition being analysed by psychiatrists, in particular sexologists, whose interest would probably reveal itself more damaging than the disorder itself.

Working as a cop in New Orleans, Will exploits his ability for a noble purpose. In his brief experience on the field, before a delinquent shot him in the shoulder, Will has managed to lock up a remarkable amount of wanted serial killers with his particular instinct, which left colleagues and superiors wondering about his disturbing ability.  

There’s been a lot of discussion about the contorted way he thinks; nothing too insightful, but enough to lead Jack Crawford to the door of his classroom with seven missing bodies and a cold one. Jack thinks Will has a knack for monsters, can distinguish them in a way that he doesn’t understand but the evidences then confirm, and Jack may be not completely wrong.

Will recognizes them by their moves, under layers of scarcely concealing clothes and misleading accessories, such as wedding rings and expensive watches. Their muscular system reflects a peculiar, fascinating charm, whether elegant or brutal, an honest expression of a grace hard to spot outside a crime scene.

Their body language says they don’t want to hide, they feel stronger than any human that has taken a life for money or power, instead of love or self-assessment. Will leaves his job and reluctantly begins to teach at the FBI academy, after realizing his distorted mind provided images of the very same flexed bodies in entirely inappropriate ways, asking to be seen closer. Murderers carry themselves with pride, they wear their crimes as a sweet scent Will has a nose for. Unfortunately, he likes to fill his nostrils with its essence.

“Please, don’t psychoanalyze me,” Will sentences in front of Jack’s blatant attempt to vivisect his inexplicable, invaluable brain at the capable hands of a reliable therapist of his choice, “You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”

•

“I don’t find you that interesting,” Will declares, more than a little relieved to assert the truth. It could be very inconvenient to feel attracted to your own psychiatrist. Keeping his insightful eyes averted, Will focuses on the tantalizing smell coming from his breakfast. Doctor Lecter can’t appreciate that Will’s lack of interest means good news from his perspective, so he may feel offended by such assertion. “You will,” sounds merely like a bad omen Will is resolute to ignore, an admittedly courteous answer for Will’s unfriendly observation.

Despite their controversial first encounter, Will revises his initial impression about the good doctor in conspicuous clothes. Hannibal Lecter respects his desire to evade prolonged eye contact, yet fiercely keeps his own gaze available for corporal communication. His body is annoyingly open and eloquent, almost suspiciously so. He moves lightly, concisely, sparingly. He exerts an iron control on his posture and on his brief, regular steps. Will follows him absentmindedly, glimpsing his thin ankles and firm calves, and suspects his poorly concealed controlling nature is not dissimilar to that of certain control freaks he daily encounters.

Will has never tried delivered breakfast, never even considered such a possibility, yet doesn’t hesitate to ingest his serving of coffee and protein scramble, which taste illicitly delicious. His provider must believe very little in false modesty, exposing himself in such a nonchalant manner, otherwise he would probably refrain from flaunting his culinary skills with a surly stranger. He seems used to display himself.

Specifically, Lecter deliberately enthrals with his natural confidence, Will surmises not only his own attentions. The evident pride of such a curious individual can be barely sated by all the suitors Will is sure he surrounds himself with. The charming line of his broad shoulders describes Hannibal Lecter as a man wont to heavy burdens, as much literal as metaphorical if Will has to guess. His fair skin, marked by fairer, faded scars, and his angular, sharp traits speak of exotic origins and foreign traditions, yet familiar sorrow.

Will avoids further observation, sensing unspoken cruelties right under the careful, inviting way Hannibal postures himself. He quite deliberately welcomes investigation to show how accurate is his anatomical analysis of the man he wants to be seen as. His admirable, prodigious inclination to deceive and please at the same time, every look gazing upon his precise and detailed performance astonishes Will, who knows all the tricks but finds the result not less fascinating.

In his personal experience, Will has noticed that such a keen interest in  _ appearing  _ is typical of constant performers and behavioural experts, much as himself. Two categories which rarely overlap. Men and women generally prefer a natural coherence with their surroundings and social interactions, a conduct that doesn’t put a constant strain on their everyday life, instead of steadily adapting their mimic, which requires a certain amount of effort.

It can be perceived as an unnecessary virtuosity, if performed for its own sake. Similarly to cerimonial etiquette, despite its artful charm, its destiny lies in a slow decay. For some reason, Hannibal still practices this sophisticated technique, bearing an incredible grace, which can be easily mistaken for naturalness without close examination.

Such elegance, so quite dissimilar from Hobbs’ ill-concealed compulsion for blood.

Will sees it fresh, under his own nails, not just on his target’s body but surrounding them in his whole house, running down his daughter’s throat; bleeding love almost drives him insane, rendering him incapable of lowering his eyes and his gun in front of the provoking man, intimating him not to move and growing an uncomfortable erection while  _ See? See? _ echoes with insistence in his muffled ears.

In his excited stupor, Will desperately tries to stop the bleeding gash on the young Hobbs girl’s neck with shaking hands and stutters, before the expert, resolute, fascinating hands of Doctor Lecter enter his line of sight.

In a brief moment of clarity, before sheathing his empty weapon and averting his eyes, Will understands how profoundly his hopes for an uneventful return to the field had been foolish and delusional. As life gradually drains from Hobbs’ dead body in dark rivulets of blood, Will stares in front of himself, partly stunned.

•

In his line of work, Will judges every saved life a successful employment of his otherwise troublesome gift. Jack is eager to borrow once again his appalling attraction to murderers, presenting it as a less embarrassing ability to not discredit his department. Will doesn’t lie when he says he can identify the twisted mind of serial killers, he just omits that he achieve such result relying on the incredible pull he feels towards their feral mimic.

Doctor Lecter rather refers to his unequivocal expression of sexual arousal, which he had witnessed first-hand, as an unconventional  _ spring of zest _ that occurred in a stressful situation. It sounds more sober than  _ getting off on psychopaths _ , easier on his mind to accept than Will being a pervert incapable of distinguish a tasteless impulse from feelings of genuine affection.

The attempt to keep a clinical, detached behaviour encourages Will to reluctantly admit he needs to openly address his unpleasant medical condition in their appointments. The soothing tone of this psychiatrist, so different from the previous he encountered, so charming in his objective, methodical analysis, leaves Will with the unusual feeling he could eventually trust someone else with his innermost secrets.

“Your condition considerably affects your personal engagements. It must be difficult to look around yourself and see the bodies of your colleagues and friends as an intimate lover or a close relative would,” Hannibal sustains, providing hints for Will to elaborate on his own. “Those which surround you might feel like you’re violating their privacy, if your ability were exposed without an accurate explanation.”

Will intentionally never speaks about it. “Is that how you feel about it, Doctor Lecter?”

The shadow of a smile lingers on his open features, reassuring. “I shall suppose you reached a point in your life where bare skin bears no particular attraction nor causes unusual reactions; in fact, your sexual drive may suffer as a result of your permanent exposition to such displays of nakedness.”

Will wonders if Hannibal feels self-conscious, at least to some extent, knowing he’s nude in front of Will’s eyes. His inviting posture betrays his natural interest on the matter at hand, not necessarily unprofessional, not entirely morbid. Hannibal is genuinely curious to explore this potent instrument with Will, selflessly interested like the ideal partner Will can only hope to eventually find.

“The shade of colour, the texture on the touch, even the smell of epidermal tissue,” Will names, “I don’t  _ not  _ find the appeal. I’m capable of sustaining a relationship, even if I don’t get often romantically involved,” Will confesses. “I react to sexual intimacy as much as anyone else, I harbour desires for human touch, for someone to warm my bed next to me and not disappear in the night,” he trails off, briefly inserting the reassuring figure of Alana in the hypothetical picture he’s portraying.

“Platonically,” completes Hannibal, unreasonably insightful.

Will shifts his hips on his chair briefly, recalling Abigail’s terrified gaze running over his trembling figure, when he delivered the arrest of her father with an uncomfortable erection. “I can discern the different natures of my impulses,” he dryly justifies himself. “What happened with Hobbs has nothing to do with my concept of a healthy relationship,”  _ more with my body _ , is left unsaid.

“You long for stable intimate connections, yet you react strongly to those your body perceives as predators. Your urges seem to struggle with these conflictual instincts, in your perception, like two different entities in the same mind,” Hannibal says. “A certain amount of trust must be granted on your part in the relationship. You need to ensure your partner understands both these aspects of your personality and accepts your condition, otherwise you would achieve only partially satisfaction.”

Will reflects on his previous romantic parentheses, concise to the point of inconsistent, hardly worth the status of relationship. Unspoken anxieties from his partners have always occupied their shared silences, more frequent than domestic experience of lazy bliss. “Such is my life,” he sighs with a pained smile. Hannibal politely doesn’t delve further.

Despite his opinionable commitment, Will candidly admits his undeniable impulse to share his unstable existence, dominated by awkward, inconvenient truths and disgust for his own tasteless tendencies. Will sighs at the strong unlikelihood of finding an equal deserving of being considered such.

•

In his adult life, Will’s hopes on achieving stability have decreased, instead of increasing, yet Will has not entirely given up on his romantic purpose. He supplies his crave for affection collecting strays, rather than cultivating his specifically amorous interactions.

It can be nice to seek the solid, reassuring presence of a human companion in the dark of his sleepless nights, and Will yearns for such an occurrence. It would be lovely indeed, for instance, to fall asleep near the sweet scent of Alana, instead of shakily waking with his brain still haunted by nightmarish elaborations of animalistic hunters covered in warm blood, searching with sweaty hands in the usually empty sheets of his bed. Will would look in her confused but reassuring eyes and enjoy her soothing caresses.

It would be so frustrating to watch as Alana failed to understand him, despite her strenuous efforts. It would hurt the both of them so much, rendering awkward each coming attempt on salvaging their reciprocal affection.

Will knows separation can be painful, if not sadly apathetic, yet he finds himself kissing her with the overwhelming sweetness of the man in love he partially is. If only he could offer the same passion worshipping her welcoming body, slowly exploring her every nook and cranny, counting absentmindedly the moles on her sinuous flanks and thighs, and content himself without further listening to the chemical signals coming from his brain, telling him there’s something more dangerous and enthralling out there, waiting for him.

Gazing at Alana’s smooth body, Will appreciates her well-proportioned limbs, the absence of whatsoever sign of discomfort, while she bends to pet his frenzied dogs. The tension reverberating through her benevolent hands when she stands against Jack on his behalf. Will can’t conceive the rushing blood in his veins, making him burn inside, entrapped within his own insightful eyes on the graceful brutality permeating from the crime scenes of his violent, powerful psychopaths.

It’s so difficult to disentangle from her dear arms, wrapped around his neck in the heat of the moment; so painful to calm his wandering mind and suffocate the strong desire to say she’s not the cause of the erection trapped in his pants.

Driving towards his unofficial therapist’s house in the late night partially easens his conflicted arousal. It roughly takes him an hour to meet his sources of stabilities. Doctor Lecter offers an hesitant twitch of his upper lip, before Will is expected to elaborate on the matter, once he finds himself far away from Alana. “Tell me about your tender affections for her.”

The initial hesitation in his features dissipated quickly after Will explained the dynamics that involved Alana and himself. Will keeps his eyes mostly averted as he confesses their shared moment of intimacy, and judging from the way Hannibal’s jaw tightens, Will guesses he feels paternal towards his former student. Will would spare him such unpleasantness, but he trusts no other emergency paddle with his confessions.

“The first time I saw Alana,” Will recalls, searching for the right words, “I immediately noticed she was wearing uncomfortable shoes. Probably bought the day before. I could tell looking at the way she kept her weight on the feet, not relying on her heels. Everybody should have been able to tell, yet no discomfort was showing on her face, so I was the only one to offer her a sit.” She still hates those shoes, in all likelihood. Will never saw them since. “I’m fond of her. She’s a gracious friend, yet the rest of her body arouses no sexual interest in me.”

Will wonders to which extend Hannibal Lecter can comprehend his clinical, arguably cold words. Precious confidants have fooled him into believing they felt sympathetic in his regards and for his unbecoming situation, before Will learned the hard way not to easily conceed his precious trust, through regrets and mistakes.

Hannibal remains pensive, collecting the cleared plate from Will’s hand; the creamy texture of custard and the sweet perfume of vanilla still lingers around them. Hannibal approaches him in his familiar, intimidating kitchen. “You don’t find her that interesting,” he supplies with compliance, allowing the sentence to put an end to the conversation.

•

Will languishes in the uncomforting awareness that he’s likely to chase after the intimacy of a lover until he tires, partaking his existence with collected strays and horrific thoughts about murder, which would get anyone else the chills for reasons entirely different from his. The sole consolation remains his cherished, completely asexual closeness to those friends willing to share his burdens.

Hannibal has no problem charming him with his calming presence and addicting attentions for his awkward mind, yet Will reprimands each attempt at furthering their solid friendship, although plenty of opportunities present. Will can see himself falling asleep at Hannibal’s side, only he just would rather not.

Hannibal perceives and respects his understandable wish to evade the possibility of that same unfair awkwardness he presently faces with Alana. Will appreciates his effort to keep professional their hard-earned complicity, and he personally delights in the strange affinity they share. Will can’t call himself dissatisfied with their familiar intimacy, until he unexpectedly glimpses Hannibal’s medical skills at work, really concentrates on his competent touch, as his gloved hands creep inside the organ harvester’s next victim.

Silvestri clumsily fumbles with the liver that the doctor instead handles expertly, restoring the life their aspiring medical student risked to take, replacing the shifting focus on his unmovable, tensed body. Looking at the calm manner in which Hannibal manages their critical situation, Will wonders how enthusiastically he would assist to a surgical operation. He can’t look away from Hannibal’s strong forearm and flexuous neck, exposing his swallowing Adam’s apple. Quite strangely, no trace of increasing heart rate emphasizes his veins.

Standing in rapt contemplation in front of a stranger’s salvation, Will feels the inappropriate desire to lick the blood smeared on Hannibal’s expert hands, covered in fitted latex, while he’s saving a life with the same grace a killer would employ to destroy it. To his utter shame, Will realizes his complete fascination expresses itself quite evidently with an inelegant bulge on his unhelpful trousers.

Enraptured as Will is with the surreal scene in front of his eyes, surrounded with red and blue flashing lights, FBI agents pointing their gun at the suspects at Jack’s imperious command, he almost doesn’t realize Hannibal’s cryptic eyes are currently aimed at his own with similar intensity. Not quite staring at Will’s frame with open interest, as Will himself instead does, but timidly studying his singular reaction at their delicate situation.

Before embarrassing himself any further, Will interrupts their intense glances coily averting his eyes. His main concern for the moment is finding viable alternatives to rubbing his own dick with his clammy palm or, worse, against Hannibal’s bare forearms, covering it in fresh blood and in return offering his pearly semen to mingle with the dark red fluid. The best idea Will comes up with is feigning mild discomfort at the sight of his friend covered in blood and offering to produce some tissue for him to clean up, as the menace is subdued and the tension partly released.

In all honesty, the sight does disturb him, if admittedly not in the way his colleagues expect. Hannibal has always exuded a fetching confidence, alongside his objectively sophisticated beauty, which has never compelled Will to regard him with untowards attentions. More than Hannibal’s undeniable charm, Will starts to fear his connection between his own psychiatrist and their latest arrest has awakened an incredibly suggestive bond for his own depravity.

The mere thought shakes Will from within, leading him to question his ability to contain the famished creature buried in his subconscious. Will wonders if his grasp on it is as tight as he estimates, as firm as a collar on a wild creature, as his own hand currently enveloping the bottle of red wine Will has bought for Hannibal. Politeness isn’t his strong suit, Will tends to prefer nakedness in every aspect it appears, but refusing Hannibal’s invitation for that evening leads him to not show up empty-handed at his door.

“I have to go,” Will justifies himself, “I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper.” He hopes his excuse is good enough. Hannibal has always proven understanding of Will’s work issues, never inquired about his urgent duties and commitments. Will almost feels bad for deliberately depriving him of his own company, which Hannibal claims to find pleasing, but he doubts his other guests would ever willingly share a table with his sharp sarcasm.

Catching Silvestri has certainly gratified Will’s voracious hunger for moral justice, but at the end of the day successful investigations never assuage Will’s inadequacy for his own intrusive, disturbing thoughts.

•

For each solved case, another manila folder appears on Will’s desk soon after, another class is cancelled, another ungratifying travel to an untouched crime scene is scheduled, another frustrating set of nightmares and wet dreams disturbs the profiler’s tumultuous nights. Will saves lives, he argues with himself, but after rescuing Silvestri’s unintended organ donor, finding an elegantly carved trombonist on an imposing stage feels a bit degrading.

For some unfounded reason, Jack deludes himself into thinking that the continued exposure to such displays is gradually becoming easier on Will. “It’s not any easier,” Will is compelled to precise, “I just shake it off and keep on looking.” His undivided attention sits then on their beautiful instrument, artfully posed in the perfect spotlight. Will reverently caresses it with gloved hands, reminding himself that a man arranged and played another man, and his job is to identify the prior to avenge the latter, letting his own personal engagement aside.

Evanescent traces cover the unconscious body of their most recent victim, masterfully and proudly flaunted in front of a captivated audience. Will seats in the front row to assist the performance, to hear, to see, to  _ feel  _ the artist’s voluptuous touch on his own beloved creation. Its crafting with a firm, skilful hand and purposeful intentions. Will imagines himself as an eager recipient of such industrious fervour from a capable artisan, waiting for his revealing crotch to deflate between his wide legs.

Never in his adult life has Will considered to share with another therapist his own particular way to see events and persons unravel before his tired eyes, conscious of the unlikelihood of finding a kindred intellect to match his own. Will considers himself a solitary explorer in the painstaking investigation of his mind, appalling and fascinating as it may be. Hannibal Lecter is the first person, therapist or otherwise, with whom Will is tempted to shirk his own vow of silence. With his pointed, sharp observations, Hannibal may shed some light on Will’s most perplexing responses, those Will cowardly fears to face alone.

Will doesn’t feel judged by him, he even trusts Hannibal not to shy away from his off-putting depravity, which is far more than he’d expect from his multiple aquietances. Unfortunately Hannibal Lecter is also the first individual to provide Will with a substantial erection, whose name doesn’t appear on a list of potential suspects. Will’s inappropriate attraction may prove unspeakably counterproductive for their friendship, not to mention that his own mental stability might collapse if Will loses his reliable paddle.

Will is reluctant to endanger their paradoxical association, but he still has to address his quite peculiar inconvenience, so he resolves to passively absorb Hannibal’s observations during his weekly appointment, hoping to obtain subtle hints without explicit discussion. Hannibal favours metaphorical discussions in any case, otherwise their conversations wouldn’t be as affecting.

“What did you see, hearing his composition, behind closed eyes?” Hannibal asks, referring to their murderous musician. Will knows his words, apparently aiming to help see their killer more clearly, are in fact an elaborate way to extrapolate previously unnoticed reflections of Will’s own self. Reliving his earlier encounter with the unorthodox craftwork with a little shiver running down his spine, Will considers blunting his own passionate appreciation in face of Hannibal’s professional indifference. “I see myself,” Will answers instead, inevitably leading the both of them to silently conjecture about Will’s ability to empathise with their elusive killer.

Studying his timidly lowered gaze with neat detachment, Hannibal remains in contemplation of their telling silence. Will suspects his perverted instincts are transparent to his sharp eyes, as if his psychiatrist has an intimate knowledge of his tasteless thoughts and chooses to accept Will’s reluctance to even speak about such questions aloud. As if Hannibal  _ knew. _

Hannibal has often seen through him with astonishing clarity, it wouldn’t surprise Will to learn his therapist has some suspicious familiarity with murder fantasies. Will’s not entirely comfortable with the resulting feeling of exposure, but Hannibal’s amicable compliance renders him dangerously appealing.

Their skilled musician trying a new instrument may have wanted to perform for a specific audience, Will estimates with a certain eagerness to divert the attention from himself and point it at their current subject. What Will cannot foresee is that their suspect owns a music store in Baltimore.

•

“I was worried you were dead,” Hannibal softy confesses in the private intimacy of his own kitchen, where Will reluctantly leans on a surprisingly comfortable stool and Hannibal insists on preparing coffee for the both of them despite his mild injuries. He has wanted to stray from the crime scene which, up until a few hours prior, has been Hannibal’s office. Surrounded with disarranged furniture and scattered evidence, Will’s urgent instinct has screamed for an incredibly powerful predator, capable to tear of limbs and blood from any other unworthy opponent. Will’s own flayed skin briefly appeared next to the two body bags, still and disgusting, as his turgid erection compelled him to melt on the floor in shame.

They’re both lucky to still be able to speak with each other, Will realises. The pronounced fondness in his steady tone and unflinching eyes, upon glimpsing Will’s healthy frame in his quarters rather than a cold morgue, has weakened to an intimate, private glimmer, but Will can tell Hannibal’s mood has drastically improved after the cursory medical examination which he was subjected to.

His contagious enthusiasm extends to Will, who picks his strong emotions and absorb them with fervent abandon. “I know,” Will answers, as his sensitive ears redden, “I could feel your apprehension.” Will doesn’t admit he can’t tell Hannibal’s apart from his own.

“I suspect you experienced more than mere concern in my office,” Hannibal observes, placing an elegant glass in front of him, letting Will’s reflecting image wobble on its dark surface. Mirrors have been a recurring theme in their speeches. His abundance of mirror neurons. His ability to mirror the best of himself instead of the worst of someone else. Conversely, Will refrains from looking at himself in the mirror whenever possible, which includes his own serving.

Will doesn’t trust his own reflection not to bear the signs of those psychopaths he hunts.

Hannibal notices his fidgetiness, of course. He’s been looking at Will with interest since he first laid eyes on him, by his own silent admission. “I wonder if your reticence to share your concern is linked to your own gift, or simply a matter of insecurity. I would accept the latter, but I’d be more at ease knowing you trust my expertise on your own mental processes.”

Will melts in the very same intimacy he could not share with Alana, nor with anybody else in months. “I’m one of those persons that shouldn’t be in a relationship. It’s so hard to be with another person,” especially while seeing them as nothing more than an intricate structure of muscles and breaking points.

Hannibal visibly weights his casual words, sparing a rapid glance at his coffee before looking up at Will’s eyes with cryptic mischief. “Would you follow me?” Hannibal asks with playful complacency, before directing himself upstairs. Will obliges, curious about his behaviour and magnetically attracted by his assertive moves, as his legs lead Will to Hannibal’s bedroom, to the foot of his large, empty bed, where an imposing mirror looms over their heads with a tempting suggestiveness. Shoulders against Hannibal’s chest, Will admires in rapt, conflicted bliss their close bodies, feeling suddenly cornered in his protective embrace. Will lowers his overwhelmed gaze, breathing deeply and harshly as his mind wanders back to Hannibal’s big office.

With incredibly inappropriate timing, Will wonders what  _ exactly  _ causes his arousal.

Deft fingers lift his chin, forcing him to snap out of his reveries. Hannibal’s lips part sharply, while their eyes meet through the reflecting glass. “What do you see?” Hannibal inquires, unrelenting. His peremptory tone, so different from his usually stolid voice, expresses the underlying covet to be finally noticed, emphasised by the strong grip of his hand on Will’s face, commanding imperiously to reciprocate his eye contact.

Raw longing creeps into Will’s lungs, suffocates his breath, urges upon his throat, as he  _ looks  _ at Hannibal. His sensorial memory provides filthy images of warm hands on his own chest, as irrepressible pulses engulf his senses. Will has feared all his life to become the subject of his own attraction, to recognize those lurid urges coming from himself, but meeting Hannibal’s predatory stare, Will abruptly identifies the charm crawling out of this man as the insanely specific attraction that may be his damnation. “I see  _ you _ ,” Will answers, trusting this to be his salvation with every fiber of his essence.

Then those lips are on his own, ravaging, consuming, and Will can already see the spot on the bed behind them drenched in their mingled sweat, his own spent decorating velvet linens the same colour as blood.

•

Demanding hands guide his nape to meet impatient lips and burning flesh.

Tongues mingle, taste, tease, explore. Mouths open to get warmly acquainted.

An obscene, transparent trace of seminal fluids smears his abdomen.

He nibbles in earnest, with teeth as dangerous as those keeping him still and, supposedly, pliant.

He nibbles to hurt, to wound, to mark. He’s not the mere sum of his own five senses.

Hannibal lends his concentrated face, distorted in fatigue and endeavour, to his wild fantasies, more and more real, more and more  _ dangerous _ , and covers his naked body in soft linens and fresh blood, to admire their staining, to replicate their soiled candor, as his feral pushes pierce tender meat.

Will is the recipient of his fervent devotion, he’s the sanctuary and the God of his religion.

He’s the prophet who perceives the monster under his sacred, desecrated tunic.

As their inert victim lies at the stairway of their immemorial temple, Will kisses and fucks and embraces his predacious lover, and wonders if he’s ever been awake before in his entire life.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The first draft of this was dated February '17, which means it has been lying around since I finished watching the whole serie. This was probably my second fic idea, the one horrible idea we all have at a certain point that we don’t explore for a _reason_ , and it would have remained unfinished if I hadn’t needed something longer than 5k words for the [MHBB initiative](https://murder-husbands-big-bang.tumblr.com/), so many thanks to the Mods for helping me break through this final wall of shamelessness, and to my very patient artist, who provided [an amazing banner](https://tcbook.tumblr.com/post/180034072577/) for it ♡  
> [Find me elsewhere](https://cinnamaldeide.carrd.co). [Post on Twitter](https://twitter.com/cinnamaldeide/status/1162085048276922373?s=20).


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